


Another Journey

by Verecunda



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Alternate POV, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: When Emperor Constans grants Alexios his new command, Hilarion finds himself torn between the fear of losing his Commander once and for all, and the fear that Alexios might be content to leave him behind.
Relationships: Alexios Flavius Aquila/Hilarion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	Another Journey

Hilarion had been down at the horse-lines with Alexios when the Caesar Constans rode back into Onnum, but he stayed behind after the Commander left. His own mount Lluagor had cut her hoof upon a stray root, — not badly, just enough to put her in a sulk — and he spent some time in soothing her and spoiling her with kisses to her nose and an extra lick of salt. By the time he returned to the old building that served as the Mess for the Frontier Scouts, it was to find it already alive with the news that Ducenarius Aquila had been summoned before the Emperor.

“When was this?” he asked Brychanus, who was the one most likely to give him any reliable information on the matter.

“Just as soon as he returned,” said the senior optio. “One of those yearlings of the Imperial guard came and whisked him away.”

“What,” said Hilarion with a grin, “and without even letting him change into his best parade uniform?”

“Without even that, sir,” Brychanus said gravely. “It had the seeming of something that couldn’t wait. Word is that old Gavros is shut up in there with them as well. I smell something in the wind, don’t you?”

Hilarion smiled his laziest smile. “Perhaps he means to hand the Purple over formally to our Commander, after all.”

He spoke with his usual careless drawl, but even as he did, he felt a little sick prickling of dread within him. The gods knew, discretion had never been a favourite watchword among the Wolves — which doubtless accounted for why many of them had ended up with the pack in the first place — and there was no denying that after the long march south, the survivors of the Third — and indeed the First — had not been close-lipped in their praise of the Ducenarius. Perhaps word had drifted back to Constans? To Hilarion’s mind, such talk was simply the surest sign of a Commander who had thoroughly earned the love and the loyalty of his men; but it was also the sort of talk that might make just an emperor a little jumpy beneath his laurels. Was it that Constans had summoned Alexios to answer for it? Perhaps even to arrest him?

Please — he suddenly found himself offering up a fervent, silent prayer to any god who might happen at that moment to be listening — please don’t let it be so. It would be too cruel, too cruel even for the gods, that Alexios should survive all that the fates had already thrown in his path, only to fall victim at the last to a Caesar’s suspicions. 

With this in mind, he found an excuse to amble by the Praetorium. No hard thing, really: the Third was still taking it comparatively easy, and his duties were light enough that there was time enough to slip away. Outside, where the main street of the fort met the Via Praetoria, the central buildings were all a-throb with the return of the Imperial presence to Onnum. A host of pretty, purple-plumed sprigs, the flower of the Imperial bodyguard, milled about, while between them, weaving, crossing, re-crossing, dodging, a constant flow of sentries and clerks, officers and general staff, made their way between Principia and Praetorium. At first, Hilarion loitered by some tethered courier mounts, leaning against the post and looking up at the windows of the Praetorium, wondering which was the room where Alexios was and what was happening inside. But the tension of waiting uselessly about quickly grew too much for him, so he pushed himself away and returned to the Ordo and his duties, anything to take his mind off what might be happening in there with Alexios and the Emperor. It was not the most successful plan he’d ever had.

“Ah, Hilarion. So this is where I find you.”

With a small start, he brought himself round and found himself facing Julius Gavros. “Oh. Good morning to you, sir. I hear a rumour that congratulations are in order.”

Gavros’ brown, weather-roughened face softened with the warmth that came into it. “My thanks to you, Hilarion. That means a lot, believe me.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” He said it respectfully enough. He was glad when he had heard of Gavros’ promotion. Glad for the Numerus, as it meant they were once more getting a commander of their own kind, not that spit-and-polish fool Montanus — and glad for Gavros, for getting some sort of recognition at last.

“Nothing more than a word, Centenarius. You’re not usually so difficult to find. I’ve just come from the Praetorium. From an audience with the Emperor and the Dux, together with Ducenarius Aquila.”

“Yes,” said Hilarion blandly, even as his pulse gave a hitch. “Brychanus told me he’d been summoned into the Imperial presence.” Then, unable to help himself: “How did it go?”

“Well,” replied Gavros, with that same glint. “Very well, in fact. You will be pleased to hear, no doubt, that despite all the Wolves’ wild talk about the wine-booths, Constans Caesar is thoroughly impressed with the Ducenarius’ conduct in bringing the Third down from Castellum.”

Hilarion could only hope that the ludicrous flood of relief he felt did not look quite so ludicrous in his face. “Ye gods! That makes us almost respectable! These are dark days for the Wolves, indeed. So, if he does not mean to make an example of our Commander and have us decimated, what does he plan?”

Gavros’ face sobered. “Well, the Castellum and Bremenium garrisons have borne such heavy losses that there’s not much to be done but have them broken up and remade. It’s in my mind that will mean transfers for a great many.”

A hollow sense of desolation blew through Hilarion. To have come so far together, endured so much — and now they were to be scattered to the winds… The thought pierced his heart in a way that the loss of the Frontier had not.

“And — the Commander?” he ventured, not sure that he wished to hear the answer.

The smile returned to Gavros’ face — a strange smile, oddly knowing, as if he were enjoying some joke that Hilarion was not party to. “Well, as to that, the Emperor had a few ideas. One was a place on General Gratian’s staff, repairing the Saxon Shore defences.” At the look on Hilarion’s face, his smile broadened. “Aye, on the face of it it doesn’t sound like much of a reward, but it comes with the rank of Tribune, and a sure chance of hunting some Sea Wolves. Another choice was a place in his own bodyguard, with the promise of a fine field command of his own in the not very distant future.”

The words struck him like one of the little poisoned barbs used by the People of the Hills. Alexios, leave the Wolves? Leave _him_? 

The gods knew, he deserved every honour that any Caesar, West or East, could think of heaping on him. Whatever he had or hadn’t done out on the Danubius, he had more than repaid it now. But to take him away from the Wolves, after he had striven so hard for them, done battle with the higher command on their account, worked hard to understand their ways and learn their worth, risked his life for them, made himself one of them — everything in Hilarion’s being rebelled against it. Nor could he believe it was something Alexios would want. He loved the Frontier Wolves, Hilarion knew it, he _was_ a Frontier Wolf. Surely, surely, by all the gods—!

“He wouldn’t,” he said. “He wouldn’t leave us.”

Gavros’ dark brows went up, and that queer sense of a smile about him increased. “Mithras, Hilarion, what a change is this! When young Aquila first came to Castellum, you prodded him like a boy with a stick at a bees’ byke.”

Hilarion waved that away. “That was before. Before I saw for myself what sort of a man he was. And I know now he would never want to leave the family. He belongs with us.”

“Well, as to that,” said Gavros, “there was one more choice the Emperor offered him.”

That sense of a secret joke now deepened into outright suspicion and, sharply, Hilarion asked, “ _What_ choice?”

Gavros jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder, towards the Principia and the surroundings buildings. “The Attacotti prisoners we have here are one out of a full five hundred who have chosen service with the Eagles over the slave market, and the Emperor has the idea of making Auxiliaries of them — the First Numerus of Attacotti Frontier Scouts. He asked Aquila if he wished to have the training and command of them.”

Hilarion had to wonder if it was Gavros’ intention to wear out his heart with all these jolts. “And? What did he say?”

Part of him was singing with sudden excitement, but almost at once, it was checked by another thought. In the eyes of the rest of the world, commanding a rabble of barbarian scouts could hardly be compared to the shining prospect of serving Caesar or one of his generals. And in all likelihood, Caesar and his uncle would prefer Alexios to take one of those brilliant positions. Hilarion had never had much in the way of family, and certainly not family with any impressive connexions, but he had a vague notion that if your uncle the Dux wanted you to do one thing, it might be a hard thing to refuse him.

And perhaps — the thought came to him, wild and stupid, but vivid for all that — Caesar might have reasons for his own for wanting Alexios by his side. Everyone knew what was said about Constans and his fondness for handsome barbarians, and though Alexios was undeniably Roman, perhaps in his battered leathers and snarling wolfskin he looked just barbaric enough to awaken the Emperor’s interest…

“Well?” he asked, and now there could be no mistaking the desperation in his voice. “And what did he choose?”

A smile, the passing of a heartbeat or two, then Gavros finally showed him mercy. “He chose the Attacotti.”

At once, Hilarion felt himself slump, undone by a clear, bright rush of relief. Of course. Of course he had.

“So he will be staying in Onnum.”

“Ah,” said Gavros. “No. Constans plans to send them over to Belgica, to the Rhenus frontier.”

And now the sense of panic, which had been hovering about the edges of their conversation since the start, burst through and flooded him, surer and more terrible now that he knew the full truth. Alexios would stay with the Wolves, but over the water in the forests of Belgica, while Hilarion would in all probability remain here in Britain, while what was left of the old Third was broken up and cast to the winds…

He had nearly lost Alexios before now. The terror of losing him had been there, a grasping hand about his heart, as he had stood on the crumbling rampart of Bremenium and watched those two figures circling and clashing within the flaring circle of the torches, for that one sick moment when he saw Cunorix’s blade go down, in the hideous clarity with which he had watched Alexios slipping in his own blood and falling, falling, with Cunorix bearing down upon him…

And it had been there during all those days and nights he had passed at Alexios’ bedside while he thrashed and muttered, deep in the red grasp of the wound-fever. He had been dead tired himself, wearied from the long march and the demands of having the command of the Ordo thrust onto his shoulders; but he could hardly bear the thought of sleeping, lest death snatch Alexios away while he was not looking. It had been a month and more, but still his mind was full of the sight of Alexios’ face, grey and sweat-sheened against the rough whiteness of the pillow, the bones stark beneath the taut skin, the shadows beneath his eyes and cheekbones and in the hollows of his temples as dark as bruises. All those nights he’d sat there, praying to every god he could think of — his own British gods, Alexios’ Mithras, even Lucius’ Christos — that Alexios would be spared.

To have come through all that, only to lose him through mere details of administration!

“Just like that?” he said, and there could be no mistaking the desolation in his voice. 

His heart was suddenly drubbing as he looked over to where the red tiles of the Praetorium peeked above the low barrack-rows. Was Alexios still there now? Was he with the Emperor and his uncle, making preparations for his new command? He was seized by a sudden, almost violent urge to go there at once, to find the room and burst in, to go to Alexios and tell him… tell him…

“Well,” Gavros’ voice cut his wild imaginings short, “not quite. He has been ordered to pick up the other four hundred at Cilurnum and put the whole lot through six weeks’ foot-drill before taking them down to Rutupiae.”

Something pierced through the tumult of Hilarion’s thoughts then — a spark, a tiny pinprick of hope.

“They surely can’t keep him a mere ducenarius, not if he has command of the whole Numerus.”

“I doubt it,” said Gavros. “He’ll be promoted to praepositus before he leaves Onnum, I’m sure.”

“Then — what Ordo officers will he be getting?”

A little spark of intelligence gleamed in Gavros’ eyes, but he kept his voice mild as he replied, “Now, do you know, I don’t know that they have appointed any yet.”

“The gods know what they’ll give him, if left to themselves.”

“Indeed.”

“He should have at least some experienced officers, who already know the ways of scouting.”

“That he should.” And now Gavros looked at him very gravely. “It would be wrong, I think, to send him to run with a new pack all by himself.”

“If I put in a request for a transfer,” said Hilarion slowly, half-afraid of putting the thing into words, “do you think anyone would take any notice?”

“I should imagine they would,” Gavros replied. “The Emperor is most impressed by the whole of the Third Ordo, and I am sure he’d be glad of an excuse to honour any of the remaining officers that he could. And I can but think you must have seconded young Aquila on your long march.”

“I would go to Hades and back for him,” said Hilarion, and it was no more than the truth of his heart.

“I know it,” said Gavros, and though he was smiling, there was no trace of jesting in his face as he reached out and touched a hand to his shoulder. “Best of luck to you, Hilarion.”

It took every scrap of self-will Hilarion had in him not to simply run for it, but to keep to his usual strolling pace as he made his way back to the place where the Third was billeted. After some amount of searching, he finally got his hands on some ink and a wooden tablet, then immediately took himself off to his sleeping-cell, flung himself down on his cot, and set to writing.

It was by far the hardest letter he had ever written. He spent more than an hour labouring over the usual expressions — “ _I ask, my lord, that you consider me a worthy person to whom to grant a transfer…_ ” — all the standard phrases that always sounded just too stiff and formal to be sincere; and he had a sudden horrible fancy that it would work against him now. He could almost hear the verdict: “Ah yes, Centenarius Hilarion. There’s no chance _he_ would ever write such a thing with a straight face. His idea of a joke, no doubt. Just throw this one on the brazier, clerk, if you please.” But he gritted his teeth and pressed on, painstakingly, second-guessing every word as if one ill-judged syllable would be enough to tip the scales of the thing against him. And all the time, his heart throbbed with a crazy urgency, as if Alexios was due to leave Onnum at the setting of the next watch.

Then it was done, and just as soon as he had cast his eye over what he had written and satisfied himself that it was the best he could write, he dashed sand against it, shook it off, then snapped the tablet to and tied it shut by the strings.

It was only later, after he had hunted down the appropriate clerk and pressed the letter into his hands, and was making his way out of the Principia yard, that the doubt set in. He had been so taken up with the thought of making sure that he could follow Alexios, he had not even stopped to consider — what if Alexios didn’t _want_ him to follow?

The thought smote him with such force that he stopped dead, there in the middle of the street. He did it so suddenly, in fact, that someone just coming out from the adjacent barrack-row nearly ran right into him and was forced to dodge to one side, cursing him energetically. Hilarion threw off some lazy, smiling retort — he never knew what — and went on his way, pursued by a new terrible dread.

They had never really been friends. Oh, they had done well enough as Commander and Senior Centenarius, once Hilarion had seen that Alexios was not the soft, spoilt cub that rumour had painted him as, and once, no doubt, Alexios got used to his ways. They had worked well together, kept the Wolves in as much order as the Wolves were ever likely to tolerate, and had brought them back to the safety of the Wall. They had even diced together, during those long winter nights in the Mess when the weather had kept them all indoors.

And since Alexios had woken from his fever, Hilarion had taken to sitting with him whenever he could be spared, helping him to eat, dress his wounds, even wash him when the orderly required an extra pair of hands. More than that, he would share with Alexios what scraps of news and gossip he had picked up throughout the day, or play him at draughts with the old set he had spirited away from the quartermaster’s office; and it had seemed, more than once, that a shade of disappointment had crossed Alexios’ face when Anthonius or the Onnum surgeon had looked in to say that it was high time Hilarion should leave him to his rest.

Perhaps, after all, it had been no more than the gladness of having someone with him, the understanding of one who had come through the same fire, who shared the loss and the sorrow of all that had gone by. It was not as if they had been trading the secrets of their hearts. Perhaps, once he had fully regained his strength and was looking forward to his new command, Alexios would want to put Castellum, and all that went with it, out of his mind for good.

And yet… his mind offered up an image of Alexios leaning back on his pillow, face pale but still, harsh lines softened, smiling as he listened to Hilarion talk. It was not quite the same way he had smiled at Cunorix — gods, no, that could have outshone Midsummer — but there had been liking there, surely?

And there had been those times, when he grew tired, that he would let his head fall back into the crook of Hilarion’s arm, turning his head toward him with a little sigh. As if he felt that Hilarion’s was a shoulder he could depend on, as if with Hilarion he felt contented and safe. And Hilarion had felt a great warmth wash through him in kind…

He groaned aloud. His thoughts were running in circles, swimming and flowing together until he had no hope of picking them apart. Mother of Mares! He had spent so long perfecting an air of carelessness, of giving the impression that he cared for nothing and no one in the world. It had been a good shield, when they had first thrown him to the Wolves, to stave off the disappointment and bitterness of disgrace, and as time went on he had almost come to believe it himself. And then had come Alexios Flavius Aquila, who had pierced through that shield without ever knowing he had done it, and had forced Hilarion to see how much he really did care: about the Wolves — and then, later, how much he cared about Alexios himself. Cared so much that it had led him to offer to kill Connla and fight Cunorix in his place, to take every hideous burden onto his own shoulders, just so Alexios would be spared the pain of them. 

And now he had rushed out and all but proclaimed his devotion from the ramparts, without stopping to wonder if his devotion was something Alexios even wanted…

For the rest of that day, these thoughts pursued him, gnawed away at him, mocked him with his own stupidity. One or twice, he found himself thinking — almost hoping — that if he was lucky, his application might go the same way as so much official correspondence on the Frontier, lost in the unknown wastes of the administration offices. But as his luck had only ever been in the way of dice and knucklebones, and never much in the things of the heart, even that seemed a vain thought.

It was still early, the short winter afternoon only just beginning to pale toward twilight, when he found himself sitting alone in the Mess, nursing a cup of barley-spirit with one hand pressed to his forehead. He was missing Lucius intensely. He always missed Lucius, so often found himself struck by some thought and turning to tell him, only to remember at the last… But now he missed him out of the purely selfish longing for Lucius’ steady good sense. If Lucius were here with him now and could see the state he had worked himself into, he would glance up from his Georgics, tut, and tell him, in his own mild way, not to be such a fool. Good old Lucius…

“So there you are.” A shadow fell across him. “Not cheating the Emperor’s bodyguard at dice, then? I’m told they have more coin, and more wine, about them than they know what to do with.”

With the greatest reluctance, Hilarion raised his eyes to Gavros’, and offered him a very weak version of his usual lazy smile. “Maybe I’ve already cheated them all, sir.”

Gavros’ mouth twitched, and he sat down on the bench opposite him. “Well?”

“Well what?” he asked, trying to put off the inevitable question.

“Did you put in that application of yours?”

Hilarion sighed. “Aye, I did, fool that I am.”

Gavros frowned. “Why do you say that?”

He gave another groan and bowed his head, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Ah, but I’m doubting he will really thank me for trailing him all the way to Belgica. I’m not precisely the friend of his heart.”

Gavros leaned back with folded arms and one brow raised, regarding him. Hilarion looked resolutely into the lees of his cup, but he could feel the weight of his old Commander’s scrutiny, assailed by an unpleasant sense of being transparent. He had no fear that Gavros would think him less of a man for cherishing such a desire for Alexios, but he had a horror of being thought a fool for it.

But when he raised his eyes again, it was to find Gavros looking at him with an expression of almost fond exasperation. He held the look for some moments — steady, considering — then pushed back the bench with a scrape, and rose to his feet.

“Come.”

Hilarion blinked. “Sir?”

But “Come,” was all Gavros would say, and in a tone that brooked no gainsaying, not even by him. Leaving his cup, he stood and followed Gavros from the Mess, as biddable as a lapdog. He wanted to ask where they were going, but something in Gavros’ manner stilled the question on his tongue. So they went in silence through the darkening streets of the fort, where torches were already being lit against the gathering shadows, until they came out on the stretch of ground just before the Praetorian Gate. Here Gavros stopped, and Hilarion with him.

“Sir, what—?”

But before he could complete the question, Gavros took him by the shoulder, and with a movement of his head, gestured for him to look up at the rampart. Hilarion followed his gaze. To the right of the gatehouse, the rampart walk was almost empty, most of the sentries taking shelter from the chill of the wind; but there against the parapet, dark and clear against the blue-tinted whiteness of the sky, stood a lone figure looking out beyond the Wall to the lost Frontier. Even at this distance, Hilarion knew him — would have known him at once, even without the rough grey bulk of the wolfskin about his shoulders. He knew that slight figure, the set of that head and shoulders, the very stillness in the way he stood, and the sight of him pierced his heart.

“There,” Gavros said quietly. “Now you can find out for yourself.”

Hilarion caught his eye: shrewd and amused, but warm. His throat was tight, but he managed a smile. This seemed to satisfy Gavros, who gave his shoulder a last squeeze and sent him on his way. Hilarion spared another glance up at the still figure on the rampart; then, before his courage could fail him, moved. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he took the rampart stairs at a run, two at a time, before emerging at the top. Up here, the wind was sharp and clear with frost, and toward the west he could see the first pale fringes of pink and gold as the sun began to set. He paused, drew a quick breath of that achingly pure air, then set out along the rampart at a stroll as Alexios turned towards him.


End file.
